I will never forget the moment I realised I'd been driving round the same roundabout in Sucina for the third time, squinting at my phone while the midday sun turned my hire car into a mobile greenhouse. It was late May, and Murcia was already doing what Murcia does best: being absolutely, unapologetically hot. My other half had insisted we didn't need sat-nav because "how hard can a golf resort be to find?" Famous last words, those.

We'd flown into Corvera airport that morning, full of the usual optimism that comes with a week off work. The plan was simple: collect the car, buy supplies, find the villa, collapse by the pool. What actually happened was a forty-minute tour of Sucina's residential streets, during which I learned that Spanish road signs and my sense of direction are not natural companions. The funny thing was, every wrong turn revealed something lovely: lemon trees heavy with fruit, whitewashed houses with terracotta pots blazing with geraniums, the occasional elderly chap watering his garden in a vest and not much else. The season had turned this little corner of Murcia into something almost aggressively picturesque.

When we finally located New Sierra Golf, it was the palm trees that gave it away. They were everywhere, swaying in a warm breeze that felt less like weather and more like a welcome committee. The estate itself was quiet in that particular late-spring way; not the ghost-town hush of winter, nor the full-throttle bustle of peak summer, but something pleasantly in-between. A few residents were about, mostly northern Europeans with the confident tan of people who'd been here since Easter. We passed a couple walking their dog at a pace that suggested they had absolutely nowhere to be, and I felt an immediate stab of envy.

The villa was one of those modern, cream-coloured numbers with a private pool and enough outdoor seating to host a small wedding. But what struck me first wasn't the architecture; it was the heat coming off everything. The patio tiles, the metal gate handle, even the air itself seemed to shimmer. Late May in this part of Spain is essentially a warning shot, a gentle reminder that summer proper is coming and you'd best be ready. We dumped our cases and made straight for the pool, shoes still on, dignity abandoned.

That first evening, we walked to the local commercial centre as the light turned golden and the temperature dropped to something approaching civilised. The seasonal timing meant the terrace restaurants were just hitting their stride, tables filling with people who understood that dining at nine o'clock isn't late here, it's practically early. We ate grilled sardines and drank beer that never had a chance of getting warm, watching the sky fade from orange to a deep, velvety blue. A few swallows darted about, making the most of the insect bounty that May evenings provide.

What I keep thinking about, though, is how that specific time of year shaped everything. The pool was refreshing rather than necessary-for-survival. The golf course next door was green and inviting, not the baked brown it reportedly becomes by August. We could still walk places without planning our route around shade. There was a sense of being slightly ahead of the crowd, of catching Murcia in a sweet spot before the full summer machinery cranked into gear.

By day three, I'd established a routine that revolved entirely around the temperature: early morning coffee outside, pool by ten, siesta whether I needed one or not, then out again once the fierce edge had softened. It felt decadent and slightly ridiculous, this surrender to the rhythm of the season. Back home I'd be rushing about, coat on, checking weather apps for rain. Here, the biggest decision was whether to swim before or after lunch.

I did feel a twinge of something on our final morning, watching the mist rise off the golf course at dawn. We'd arrived flustered and lost, but we were leaving with that particular tan line you only get from a week of doing very little, very slowly. The season had done what good seasons do: it had made the place feel temporary and precious, a moment caught between the last of spring and the first real heat. I understood suddenly why people return to these villas year after year, chasing that exact feeling, that exact week, when everything is warm but not yet wilting.

We found the airport without a single wrong turn, which my other half took as personal vindication. I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd memorised the route by now, or that I'd secretly enjoyed our little tour on arrival, the accidental sightseeing that only getting lost can provide. Some mishaps, I've decided, are worth the trouble. Especially when they happen in late May, in Murcia, with the whole summer stretching ahead like a promise.